Goodnight Mr Holmes
by T. Oswin-Oswald
Summary: While Sherlock was hospitalized, who did he meet? Who did he talk to? This idea came to me during Sherlock Season 3. Please excuse grammar and spelling mistakes. Review :)


Sherlock stared at the starch white hospital ceiling until his eyes hurt. He had spent a better portion of the day at his Mind Palace trying to dig up anything he had on the woman who shot him; Mary Watson. He had known her for only a short time, but for him, that was plenty of time to get to know a person in their entirety.

He felt a twinge of pain in his side and caught it with the morphine drip that was at his disposal. The flow of painkillers clouded his thinking and he knew that he wouldn't be able to get much further in his efforts today. All he wanted to do was sleep.

The door clicked shut and Sherlock jolted awake. A young girl quietly turned around and put her finger to her lip. "Mind if I hide out in here for a spell?" She asked. Sherlock just stared. She walked over to foot of his bed, carting something behind her. She had a clear plastic tube around her nose and scarf tied around her head, small wisps of hair hanging out over her forehead. "I'm Liza," she said. She glanced down at his chart. "Nice to meet you Mr. Holmes." Sherlock continued to stare. She motioned to the chair beside his bed. "Can I sit please?" He nodded. She carted her-what Sherlock saw was now an oxygen tank-over to the chair and sat down. "you don't have to talk with me, just trying to have a moment of peace and quiet." Sherlock rolled his eyes and closed them. "I can assure you that I do not plan on 'chatting'."

Liza laughed. "Mr. Personable." She looked out the window. "What are you in for?"

"I thought you said you were to refrain from conversation."

"That was before I realized how personable you were."

"You saw my chart." His eyes remained closed, trying to reenter sleep.

"Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Went into shock at site."

"Very good, now please be quiet." Sherlock took a deep breath and upped the morphine, hoping to get back to sleep.

"You see," Liza began. "This is the part where you ask me what _I'm _here for."

"No need." Sherlock replied.

"Is that so?" Liza laughed. "How can that be?"

Sherlock sighed and looked over at her. . "You are eighteen, that part is obvious. The presence of an oxygen tank indicates that what you have is lung related. Cancer from the looks of your hair."

"My hair?"

"Short and covered with a scarf, meaning it's been missing. But _this_ is when things get interesting. Your hair is growing _back_, therefore, you are no longer being treated for your illness, but you still have the tank and are living in the hospital. So, you are not cured but no longer being treated. You're also comfortable here. Your clothes are not hospital issued, they are personal, and they only make one kind of patient that comfortable, and you are that patient, you are-"

"Terminal." The girl interjected. Her eyes were moist. "Sorry," she said, smiling bravely. "Somehow it sounds less scary when in say it. Very good Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

"It's alright mate. They told me I wouldn't make it 'bout a year ago. Since then I've accepted it, 'specially since I've started noticing things."

"Things?"

"I'm more tired, weaker, slower, my chest-burns all the time," her voice cracked, and her chin quivered. "Not long now." She inhaled as deeply as she could without coughing. "My sister got engaged last month. 'Bout that time that I asked to come back to hospital. Didn't want to spoil the happy couple with dying n' all."

"You asked to come back here? To die?"

The girl nodded. "My sister's back home, her fiancé's living down the street, but he's over all the time. She deserves Mum and Dad's full attention for once. Eight years she was put on the back burner. No. This is her time now."

"You care…that much?"

"My sister was always there for me when I was first sick. There's not much I can do for her anymore, I thought…this might be good enough."

"But if this is true, you'll die alone, in a cold hospital room."

"Yes, but at least my sister has a few days of just her and Mum, and Dad. I already said my goodbyes Mr. Holmes. Like I said, I've known for a long time now."

"How can anyone be that brave?"

She laughed. "I'm not brave Mr. Holmes. In fact, right now, I'm scared to death. Anyone can accept death. Doesn't mean you're ready to die. You were shot, probably stared death in the face, weren't you scared?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He _couldn't _answer. He just stared at her, her eyes red and wet. Tears polishing her pale cheeks. She smiled. "My words exactly Mr. Holmes. You can go on back to sleep now. I won't be but a few more minutes."

Sherlock slowly turned his head, staring back at the ceiling. He felt a burning in his eyes. He closed them, inhaled deeply, and then let the pain killers knock him out.

When he opened his eyes, it was dusk. He slowly craned his neck towards the chair. The girl was still there, asleep on the chair. Sherlock leaned forward to wake her. That's when he noticed she was barely breathing, and her lips were a light blue.

"My God," he breathed. He pushed his emergency call button. Within moments a team of nurses and doctors were upon the girl.

"Get me some oxygen in here!"

"Nurse Keller, call for a stretcher."

"Come on honey wake up."

"Where's that stretcher?!"

A stretcher was rushed in. The girl was hauled up onto it.

"Sorry to disturb you Mr. Holmes." One of the doctors said on his way out.

Just like that, Sherlock was alone with his thoughts.

She lay in her bed. The gentle drone of her "self-breather" lulled her to sleep. The beeping of her heartbeat echoed in her ears. Her room was dark. The window closed, the curtain drawn. She winced with every breath. Her chest burned, her limbs ached, her feet numb. She had an urge to sleep. An urge unlike any she ever felt. An urge to sleep forever.

She closed her eyes. _I'm ready_, she thought. _If this is it, I'm ready_. She closed her eyes and felt the world start to swell around her, threatening to swallow her. All sound ceased; all but the sound of her window opening.

She jolted awake, her breath catching in her throat. Sherlock stood beside her bed. "Wh-" her words caught in her throat.

"I was wrong," Sherlock said. She stared at him blankly. He raised his hands in defense. "Odd as it is, it has happened before, once…maybe twice."

"What-what are you going on about?" She asked breathlessly, the burning in her chest getting worse. He knelt down beside her so she could look into his eyes.

"About you," he said. "I was wrong about you, and you were right, I just, couldn't see it right away. You're _not_ just another person. You are better, you are stronger, you are…_different_." He leaned in closer to her face; she could feel his hot breath on her skin. How hot would her breath be to him if this plastic mask wasn't collecting it? She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. "I'm n-"

"Yes you are. Despite the fact that you are going to die, you're thinking of you sister and _her _happiness. Never forget that." Her eyes burned with tears. He nodded in conclusion and rose to leave. She grabbed the bottom of his coat. "Don't leave," she whispered. "I may be selfless but I'm still afraid of doing this alone." Sherlock glanced at her, then, sat down on the bed, taking her hand. "I'll be right here." He said. She smiled, squeezing his hand. She closed her eyes. The world began to close in around her, but not violently this time. No. It was soft, like a boat sailing across a glassy sea. "Goodnight Mr. Holmes." She whispered.

Sherlock picked up the bedside phone. "Hello? Yes, please send someone up to room 205. No rush." He looked back at her, kissed her forehead, and walked back to the open window. Swinging one leg over the side, he couldn't help looking back once more. She could have been sleeping. So peaceful. He blinked away tears that attacked him out of nowhere. With a final whispered "goodnight", Sherlock climbed out the open window.


End file.
